Hands
by ThisIsMyVoice777
Summary: The first thing she notices about him are his hands. Strong hands. sure hands. an Artists hands. a warriors hands. A lover's hands. Linctavia as it was meant to be; Octavia falls in love with Lincolns hands first and then she falls in love with the rest of him


**Hands**

One of the first things she noticed about him were his hands.

In the dropship where Bellamy had him tied up, his arms spread wide as if he were modelling for his own crucifixion, she couldn't help but notice them.

His hands were large and badly damaged; bloody and punctured and cut from Bellamy's ministrations.

"I'm so sorry about all of this" she whispered, anguished, her voice breaking slightly as she inspected his wounds as gently as was humanly possible. "All you did was try to help me and look, look at the thanks you get" her bitterness at the actions of her brother and the other Arkers seeped in to mix with the anguish in her voice. She risks a glance at him but instead of the agreement – the anger – she had expected to see his face was completely unreadable. There was a smoothness to his features that would have been eerie if it wasn't for the expression in his eyes. They were soft, so very soft and thoughtful as they roamed over her. His exploration was careful, as though he was memorizing her features, loathe to miss even the slightest detail. The focus in his look and when he is done examining her, the gentle reverence that suffuses his eyes makes Octavia catch her breath, makes something low in her stomach clench in surprise and something else she can't quite name.

A whole minute passes before she is able to tear her gaze away.

She suspects it will take a whole lot longer before she is able to calm the flutters in her stomach or her suddenly racing heart.

She can still feel his eyes on her as she picks up the cloth beside her and dips it into the bowl of water she brought, wringing it till most of the water leaves. It makes her feel warm. Flushed. She resists the urge to self- consciously press the back of her hands to her cheeks to check and focuses on his hands instead. She has to move closer to him if she wants to tend to his wounds but she's aware that this is after all, a grounder. One whom her brother had spent the last hour torturing for information at that. _After_ he had saved her life.

His hands weren't just large, they looked strong, decorated by a fine network of veins rising just underneath his skin, his fingers long and lean.

If she moved closer and he wanted to get even with his captors – with Bellamy especially – all he had to do was reach for her neck and squeeze.

Octavia's pulse stutters nervously at the thought. She risks another glance at him and his eyes are clear on hers, calm and steady, almost as if he knew what she was thinking and was just waiting for her to make _her_ decision. And maybe it was stupid, and naïve, but there is something about the transparency of his gaze, about the way he wouldn't let any of the others treat him but is willing to be bare and vulnerable – half- naked and bruised and beaten – before her in the middle of his enemies camp – in this place, where the smell of his blood hangs heavy in the air, mixed with the rain and the tang of metal and fuel that was a part of the dropship – something about the way he trusts her that makes her want to trust him right back.

So Octavia sucks in a small breath.

and steps close.

And presses the wet cloth gently against his wounded palm.

He lets out a quiet hiss and Octavia startles, nearly dropping the cloth. "sorry, sorry," she mutters as she quickly checks his expression. There's a new tightness around his eyes and mouth but when he catches her eyes, one corner of his mouth lifts in the smallest of smiles and Octavia releases a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding in the form of quiet laughter. His eyes sparkle.

She shakes her head at herself before turning back to his hand. She makes herself take a deep calming breath and admonishes herself to be steady. This time, she cups the back of his hand with one of her own, so that they can both be steady.

* _She doesn't miss the way it dwarfs hers. And maybe that's officially the first thing she notices – how large they are_. *

"Let's try this again." She murmurs determinately, mostly to herself but it isn't until he gives her a slight nod that she brings the cloth back to his wound.

And this time, though his hand tenses in hers, and his jaw clenches, he doesn't make a sound.

 _It makes something in her chest swell and bloom and ache all at the same time and Octavia does her best not to think about it – not about the size of his hands, or how warm his skin is against hers, certainly not about the fluttering in her stomach – not about how this supposed enemy is biting down on his own pain just to alleviate some of hers – her guilt, her worry, her anxiety._

When she's done, the water in the bowl is red and she can finally see his palms. They're calloused, probably from shooting bows and arrows or wielding all kinds of weapons. She'd seen the evidence of his prowess with her own two eyes and while she was nowhere near an expert it didn't take a genius to see that he was a terrifyingly skilled warrior. Somewhere between wrapping a bandage around his palms and tying the final knot, she forgets herself and her fingers ghost curiously over his palm. It's just as warm as the rest of him and somehow still soft despite the callouses, pleasant.

His fingers suddenly curl around hers and Octavia jolts again and then freezes, her gaze snapping up to meet his. Heat instantly floods her face at the realization that she's been absentmindedly stroking his palm for she doesn't know how long.

He doesn't seem to mind though if the slow grin spreading across his features is any indication.

She'd never have guessed that someone who'd been so stoic up till now could manage a smile that wide.

Or that bright.

His teeth are really white; she can't help but notice.

So maybe grounders had their own version of teeth – whitening toothpaste and there's something about the image of these fierce, strong, six-foot-tall men hunting through the underbrush for mint leaves to smear across their teeth – something about the sparkle in his eyes and the inviting camaraderie of his grin that makes it impossible for Octavia not to grin right back.

His grip on her hand is gentle and after a moment, he turns her hand over to carefully brush his fingers against the inside of her wrist, just where the cut running along her inner forearm ends.

The skin at her wrist tingles.

He meets Octavia's gaze again, his face serious and the question he's asking clear.

Butterflies explode inside of her stomach.

"are you alright?"

He manages to ask with his eyes alone. And Octavia knows he's talking about the cut. It still stings a little but mostly, mostly –

"I'm alright." She whispers. Tingling aside.

He's doing this thing where he smiles with his eyes and the barest upturned corner of his mouth and he seems to be saying that's good.

Octavia's mouth tilts up as well and she lets herself stand and enjoy this moment, the pleasantness of it without worrying about the absurdity – This calm in the middle of a howling storm that violently beats on every available surface, this calm after being captured and cut and saved – twice - by the man in front of her who'd been whipped and tortured for his trouble. This calm in the middle of what had barely five minutes ago been chaotic madness. She would laugh if she wasn't afraid she'd shatter this rare breath of peace, this moment of insane sanity in the midst of what had been true insanity.

And maybe it's the fact that he's still holding onto her hand, or the fact that his eyes are bright and soft and deep as they look at her, or maybe it's just that it's been a really long day and he could have choked her out but didn't but, whatever the reason, Octavia finds herself whispering into the dim interior of the dropship. "my name is Octavia."

She doesn't ask 'what's yours.'

She doesn't know if he can even answer and if he could, doesn't want him to feel pressured to which is why she is stunned first and then unspeakably excited when he whispers just as quietly.

"Lincoln."

His voice is as unexpectedly soft as the rest of him, but rich, smooth and clearer than she thought it would be.

They stay like that, with warm hands and small smiles, bright eyes and butterflies and racing hearts until Bellamy and the rest of the guards come back and Octavia has to slip away.

She carries the imprint of his fingers in tingling palms for the rest of the day.

 **/0/0/0/0**

So, maybe it's no wonder that one of the first parts of him she falls in love with are his hands.

Skilled hands, with long, lean, beautiful fingers – an artist's hands.

A week after their introduction in the dropship, Octavia lies fully clothed on a mat of furs with her eyes closed and tries her best not to alert Lincoln to the fact that she's awake. The furs are blissfully soft against her cheek, delightfully warm after absorbing her heat. She knows Lincoln will be leaning against the wall, close to the makeshift bed. The sound of charcoal scratching against paper drifts over and promises to lull her back to sleep if she'll let it.

She doesn't, instead opting to open her eyes and watch, staying as still as possible just in case he's sketching her.

Lincoln _is_ sitting against the wall, a collection of sheets that amounts to a sketchbook on his knees. Every so often, his gaze drifts to her form, lingering over it and a pleasant heat seeps into her cheeks and then spreads and warms her all over at the realization that he _is_ drawing her. She presses her face into the furs to hide her smile, rubbing her face into them subconsciously. It's a bad idea. Some of the hairs go straight up her nose, tickling her violently and suddenly Octavia lets out an explosive sneeze.

And another.

The third is so powerful, she is forced to push herself up to her elbows and flips herself onto her back with a groan.

It takes a couple of seconds for her head to clear before she realizes that Lincoln is shaking with silent laughter in the corner. Octavia sits up, curious and a little shocked– it's the first time she's seen him actually laughing since the dropship.

"What?" she asks, a little bewildered but also pleased.

"For someone so small, you have a sneeze that would scare away a grizzly bear Octavia kom Skaikru" he teases by way of explanation. His eyes are twinkling as he grins.

Octavia chucks one of her sneakers at him and he dodges it easily, chuckling.

She should at least make a show of pouting but she's too busy returning his grin as he crawls over to her and settles down cross-legged at her side. Octavia sits up beside him and crosses her legs too so that their knees are brushing. Absently, she wonders if tingling is a guaranteed reaction every time he touches her and if so, does it apply everywhere? She stores the question aside for later when Lincoln passes the drawing into her lap.

Octavia lets out a shocked gasp when she gets a proper look at it.

She's stunned.

Awed.

Touched.

Beautiful. The woman he's drawn - slumbering on a bed of furs in an underground bunker illuminated by nothing but candle flames sending a golden glow over her creamy skin – is breathtakingly beautiful. He's somehow managed to capture everything with charcoal, even the differing intensities of light in the room. And Octavia looks from his gently smiling face to the sketch and back, disbelief and pleasure warring within her for first place.

"is this, is that-"

"you?" he supplies softly, his eyes knowing. "yes."

"Oh." Is all she can manage at first. She's startled by the first prick of tears that comes to her eyes and blinks rapidly to clear her vision.

"I'm…I'm – " she struggles to say the word past the sudden lump in her throat.

"Beautiful." Lincoln sighs, leaning down to press a reverently tender kiss against her forehead. He lets his lips linger before shifting so that he can pull her carefully into his arms, hold her close.  
"I thought you should know." He murmurs. And now the tears Octavia had been trying to hold onto slide free and she turns her head to press her face into his chest as she silently burrows closer and his hands come up to wrap around her.

She's only told him bits and pieces of her life up in the ark, keeping her story as brief as possible. She told him, generally, about the limit on the number of children you could have, about how she was never supposed to have been born, about the hole in the ground and how her mother had died because of her, how she'd been found out at the party and imprisoned and she'd ended it there. She'd spent the majority of her life defined by those years, the last thing she wanted was for him to define her by them as well. Lincoln's expression hadn't changed while she told him and she was grateful for that. Grateful for the kindness and empathy that shone in his eyes, grateful for the absence of pity, grateful that when she was done and the silence was so loud it screamed that even the little she had divulged to him of that time had been too much too fast and ruined whatever _this_ was, he'd taken her hand, tangled their fingers together and squeezed. Grateful that he hadn't pushed for more details. Grateful that he hadn't let go, until they'd both fallen asleep and not even then.

So yes, she'd told him, but she hadn't _told_ him.

Not about what it felt like to huddle in the dark in a box that seemed to shrink tighter in on you every day. Not about what it felt like to literally be trembling in the grips of a fear that had sweat beading on her forehead, and upper lip and the back of her neck, clutching an old toy rabbit that was stained from years of sweat and tears; too much handling and too little washing.

Not about how her life had been divided into the moments when she was living in that hell or the moments when she was out of it but keeping her voice low and her smiles small, shrinking herself down even in real life, always tense, always waiting for the sound of footsteps, for unexpected visitors or surprise inspections, for the moment when she would have to go back underground.

Not about what it felt like to be trapped inside her own body, wanting so desperately to be free and yet fearing so much to push too hard and shatter the glass walls of the fragile world in which she'd lived.

In that reality, she'd had little chance to worry about things like whether or not she was beautiful; never had anyone to set a standard for what beauty was supposed to look like.

She was used to not being wanted on the one hand and then to being wanted but never truly belonging on the other, because after all, she was never supposed to have been born.

She thinks her mother might have called her beautiful once, but she was too young to remember and the memories are a hazy blur that are really more impression and emotion than actual pictures. The older she got and the greater the chance for her discovery grew, the less such endearments flowed.

They were all too busy trying to keep her alive. Bellamy has never called her beautiful; she doubts if the thought has ever even occurred to him. To him, the most important things she could be were: dead and not dead. Beauty was a vanity that meant nothing in that world.

Then she had taken her first few steps on the ground and as the vibrant green world in front of her exploded with life, she thought she understood beauty for the first time.

With Lincoln she understood both what it felt like to be wanted and to belong. No one has ever actually called her beautiful. They'd never had a chance to – she's been hidden for most of her life, but even on the ground, not even Atom had. Maybe because they feared Bellamy too much to risk it, maybe because they assumed she already knew it and she did know it, if only because she had decided that she had already wasted too much of her life to walk around believing anything less but –

There was something about hearing it from another human being, from Lincoln, from seeing herself through his honest, oh – so – expressive eyes that touched all those softer places within herself she hadn't known existed, all the places that actually needed to hear it. To _believe_ it.

She hadn't told him about those places. And yet somehow he knew about them all the same. When Octavia pulls back to look at him and her thank you spills over from her full eyes and run down her cheeks, those artistic hands gently thumb them away, the small smile he's wearing and the soft kisses he presses against her eyes saying clear as day.

 _You're welcome_.

 **/0/0/0/0/0**

Strong hands, sure hands, powerful hands – a warrior's hands. She adds the attributes to her growing list.

Octavia swings with all her might and their swords clash so violently sparks hiss from between their blades and the impact sends vibrations shooting up and down her arms.

The grin she gives him can't be described as anything less than feral and Lincoln returns the grin, looking pleased and playful and dangerous as she swings again and he blocks. They continue like this for about two minutes.

It's been about two weeks since he started training her but even though she is improving at an almost unbelievable pace, Octavia still struggles more and more to keep up as he increases their speed until with one last strike he has her sword spinning out of her hands and thudding on the ground. Reacting quickly, she rushes to it but just as she squats and grabs the hilt of her sword

Lincolns foot thuds down on it, effectively stopping her from lifting it up. Octavia blinks in surprise as the very tip of his blade settles on the warm skin of her throat, right against her pulse. She swallows, the movement of her throat riding against the sharp edge of the blade. When she glances carefully up at him, an eyebrow arched Lincoln smirks at her and tsk's, indicating with his chin the hold she still has on her sword. So Octavia lets go and lift her hands up in the traditional posture of surrender, making sure to roll her eyes as she does. Lincoln grins and invites her to stand with his free hand. Octavia obeys, slowly rising to her feet, very aware of the point still pressed against her throat.

The steel is cold, but Lincoln's eyes are warm as he looks at her and she is not afraid – knows without knowing how she knows that he would never hurt her.

Even though her mind is already whirling with how she can disarm him, she can't try anything in this position, and if the grin on his face is any indication he knows it.

"Best two out of three?" she asks playfully after a moment arching an eyebrow and Lincoln huffs out a laugh and lowers his sword. Sliding his foot underneath her blade, he flips it up catching it effortlessly and twirling it a few experimental times before presenting it to Octavia, hilt first.

She makes a show of rolling her eyes again as she takes it. "show off." She mutters.

And Lincoln's responding laughter is loud and delighted and young; it sinks all the way into her bones, stripping away years of dark holes in the floor, and fear and sickening anxiety until she is young and delighted too.

Until she is free.

With a whooping battle cry she charges at him.

Octavia blinks slowly up at Lincoln, her mouth parting slightly in surprise. Small stones dig into her back and blades of grass tickle at her neck but Octavia barely registers the feel of anything but Lincolns warm breaths washing against her face, his hand that has pinned the hand reaching for her sword above her head, the heat sinking into her skin from his chest, hovering just above hers and his thighs and on either side of her waist keeping her locked in place.

Her eyes are wide and dark, her mouth almost embarrassingly dry.

Her heartbeat is unsteady and so loud in her chest she wonders if he can hear it.

One minute they had been sparring and he'd swept her legs out from under her so that she fell to the ground with a jarring thump. Octavia twisted to reach for her sword and the next he was pinning her down, his sword hovering just over the skin of her neck.

"Octavia," Lincoln whispers, his voice husky and filled with an unspoken question. Her mouth, already dry, somehow dries out even more and her throat is a desert. It takes her two attempts at swallowing before she can answer and even then, her voice sounds as if it hasn't been used in years.

"Yeah?" She croaks. Involuntarily, her gaze falls to his lips. They are full and well defined and look as unexpectedly soft as all the other parts of him.

Lincoln leans in, his cheek brushing hers, and then his nose and Octavia can't help closing her eyes at the sensation, even as she resists the urge to arch into him. He turns his head to say speak into her ear and the feeling of his hot breaths washing against the sensitive skin of her ear sends tingling shocks down her back, where they pool at the base of her spine. She tenses against the sudden urge to turn her head and bites down on her bottom lip to keep herself grounded – to keep from doing anything stupid she might regret later.

"I win." Lincoln whispers.

And it takes a beat, two before Octavia lets out an amused breath of air and the tension leaks from her body like water spilling from a torn sack leaving her free to sag back into the earth.

"Actually – " she pushes her left hand forward slightly and enjoys the way Lincolns eyes widen, the way his mouth falls open just slightly in surprise. "I think this round goes to me, don't you?" she grins as he turns his body just enough to look at her hand and make sure she isn't playing any tricks on him. True enough, Octavia has a small dagger clenched in her hand and it is currently pushing it against Lincoln's shirt, just enough so that he can feel the sharp tip of the blade without it actually hurting him.

When he meets her eyes again there's respect in his gaze and a kind of proud pleasure that makes her feel warm all over. He chuckles and then smiles a smile made soft by his approval.

"Well done Octavia Kom skaikru. We'll make a warrior out you yet"

And Octavia grins at him so widely it feels like her face might split with the radiance of her joy. Her heart fills and stretches till it feels it might just burst with pleasure and pride.

He lowers the sword at her neck to the ground at her side and releases the arm he had pinned down in order to push himself up with both hands so that he is hovering slightly higher over her. He gives her a thoughtful look before pushing himself all the way up to his feet and extending his hand to help her up.

* _and Octavia desperately tries not to miss the barely there press of his body against hers, tries not to imagine what would have happened if she had turned her head, if she had kissed him. She pushes the sensation and the images rather roughly out of her mind_ *

"Again?" he asks simply, offering a hand to help her up and Octavia grins and takes it.

Strong, sure, powerful, _warm_ hands. Large hands.

A warrior's hands.

"Again," she affirms without hesitation.

 **/0/0/0/0/0**

Later…

Later, the sun has almost completed its journey home and hovers just above the horizon, eager to slip into its waiting arms. The sky is a mixture of oranges and reds and purples and she is so tired she can barely walk in a straight line. when she almost walks straight into a tree, Lincoln stops listening to her half- hearted 'I'm _fine'_ sand lifts her easily onto his back, tucking his hands underneath her thighs. For one aching second, he's torn between taking her back to her camp or back to their bunker but during his few minutes of indecision, Octavia's head lolls against his back and he realizes that she's already fallen asleep. Carefully, he readjusts her so that her head is resting more comfortably against him and grins at the way her mouth has fallen open. without hesitation this time he begins walking.

Octavia wakes up with a start, disoriented by the darkness and the swaying surface underneath her until she realizes she's back in her tent at camp, tucked into her hammock. Lincoln is long gone by now she knows, but her disappointment only has a moment to sting before she notices what has been tucked in with her.

Against her side, beautiful even in the darkness, a familiar white and lilac flower.

Smiling, Octavia sinks back into her hammock and lets her eyes close once more.

It's been almost a month now since they met, more since they crash-landed on earth and Octavia sits in the dim orange glow given off by a number of candles as Lincoln tens to some cuts and scrapes on her hands and arms. She watches him, the little furrow of concentration on his brow, the way he inspects her, careful not to accidentally brush against any wound or leave any untreated and Octavia adds careful to her list. And thorough. She looks at him, at the broad width of his shoulders and the strong line of his jaw, the fine lines of his features, the strength of his arms and the way his eyes lift to catch hers, the way his mouth tilts up in a small smile like he knows some secret that is just for them (and in many ways he does). Her heart suddenly swells and fills with warmth, a heady kind of calm and peace that's almost intoxicating in the small space.

And maybe that's the reason she finally tells him, actually tells him tells him about her life on the ark, before this. Tells him about the dark, suffocating hole in the floor and Mr. Rabbit, tells him about the fear and anxiety, tells him about the joy of that one brief moment outside and then the pain and crushing guilt; tells him everything until she is crying - not the cute, hiccoughing kind of crying that can be dabbed with little white handkerchiefs but the ugly, wretched kind of crying that feels as if every tear is being torn from her very soul.

Lincoln opens his arms and Octavia doesn't even hesitate to throw herself inside them, gasping into his shirt. He rubs her back and rocks her until she can't cry anymore, until she is achingly, blissfully empty, until all the bleeding, wounded places inside her feel pleasantly numb. Then he rocks her a little more, while Octavia snuggles further into his chest, until the silence grows loud around them. She pulls away from him gently, embarrassed now at having broken so completely in front of him and in his arms no less. No one has seen the full extent of her grief, not even Bellamy and now Lincoln knows; Lincoln knows everything. She looks away from the concern on his face to her hands, cheeks warming and again, it seems like Lincoln understands completely because he begins cleaning her wounds again without saying a word about the meltdown she'd just had.

Octavia doesn't have words for just how much she appreciates this about him. When she gets the courage to risk a glance at him, Lincoln directs a small smile at her and then continues cleaning. She sees the door she had opened closing and there's a part of her that desperately wants it to but a part of her, even more desperate wants to be known – wants him to know and understand her. She doesn't just want to set the moment aside, close the door, push the grief down;

She wants to let him in.

She has no idea how to and for some reason she finds herself blurting out, "I've never really had a home before."

When Lincoln pauses in his ministrations to look at her, a question in his eyes, Octavia can feel heat rising to her cheeks, but now that she's started, she has to explain.

"Home on the ark was the small hole beneath one of the loose metal sheets that made up the floor so…yeah…" she trails off awkwardly, she attempts a smile that ends up bittersweet and comes out more like a grimace. "I've never had a place where I could go to… to just be…It feels nice." She adds risking a glance at him and Lincoln smiles at her, soft and warm and full of understanding.

The smile slowly fades however, something flickering in his gaze and for a second it seems as if he is struggling with himself. Then he turns his attention back to the bandaging her fingers and Octavia is confused by the small frown on his face until he begins to speak.

"I've always had a place among my people. From the moment I was born till the moment I die, will have a place. As a son, a warrior, a member of my clan." He begins quietly, not looking at her as he gently bandages her wrist. "But having a people and having a home are two completely different things. Among my people there are things that may not be said, things that may not be done, things for which, though right under normal circumstances could have me executed. Things like saving you. Things like helping your people." Octavia tenses reflexively, a spike of anxiety shooting through her. Lincoln squeezes her hand and finally lifts his eyes to meet hers, the expression on his face strong and clear and determined as his thumb rubs soothingly over her knuckles. "To me, a home is a place you never have to hide, or pretend. A place where you are always wanted. A place where you can just be yourself, free. No confines, no small spaces in a home. I used to have a home. With my father and mother and little brother. And then the Azgeda came and now I don't have one anymore. It's why I wanted to be a warrior in the first place."

Octavia sucks in a small shuddering breath in understanding, because she knows what it feels like to be all alone, to have a family one moment and have no one the next. She has felt it over and over and over again. To have a mother one moment and then have no one.

Her stomach clenches and twists painfully when she realizes his eyes are glimmering with unshed tears. She gives Lincolns hand a small squeeze and he smiles at her and clears his throat.

"But when I am with you, I feel free; In a way I can never truly be with my people. I have shown you sides of myself they will never see. So maybe you can be my home Octavia kom Skaikru and maybe, if you are willing, I can be yours." He finishes so softly his voice is nothing but a whisper.

Once again she finds her eyes filling with tears and it's a bittersweet kind of pleasure that rolls through her now, filling up her heart till it almost hurts. She lets herself lean forward, lets their foreheads kiss as she breathes deeply to alleviate the ache. "People die." She points out, her voice breaking on those two short syllables. It is the first lesson about this Life she learnt, whether on Earth or on the Ark: Her father, her mother, Atom… people die.

"Yes." Lincoln whispers and there's something about how simply he acknowledges such a tragic truth that burns and soothes at the same time, magnifies the ache in her heart and brings more tears to her eyes. Her face crumples. There is no hiding from it, no changing it, no overcoming it. It's an inevitability on this earth – their one constant in an otherwise unpredictable world- that people die and sometimes there's nothing you can do to stop it.

"But whiles they live, they can make the most of their lives. And I will always be with you, Oktavia kom skaikru, in here." He lays his hand gently on her chest, right over her heart and Octavia wonders if he can feel it, the shift in the rhythm of her heartbeat. How loud and insistent It becomes, as if it is reaching for him right back. His hand burns and the ache in her heart has somehow intensified, spread all over her body and sunk into her very bones – she aches for the both of them, for the hundred, for the Ark that could label a newborn baby as just another unwanted statistic to be gotten rid of and the Earth that just barely survives by living off of blood and fear and retribution. She aches to _live_ and love, and grow old and be free.

She aches to just _be._

Her hands curl reflexively in Lincolns jacket holding on as tightly as she can as if she can grab the promise he offers he offers and never let go. The warm hand cupping her face moves down briefly past her arms to cover the hands clenching in a white knuckle grip, to squeeze gently and stroke before they move back, to wipe away the tears running down in earnest from her closed eyes. Lincoln pulls away, just an inch, just enough to urge her to look at him and gaze deep into her glistening eyes.

"It would be my honor and pleasure to be your home, Octavia kom skairku and to have you be mine. If you will have me." He ends carefully, suddenly looking far younger and more vulnerable than Octavia can ever remember him seeming. Its crazy that he would think there could ever be any doubt and she wants to tell him that, but there's a lump the size of a boulder in her throat and she's not quite sure she has words for everything rising up and crashing inside of her so instead she tugs him forward and crushes her lips against his.

The kiss is wet and uncoordinated but fierce and powerful and in it she attempts to pour out everything she's not sure she'll be able to explain:

Her ache is in that first clack of their teeth, in the tremble of her fingertips against his face.

Her yes is in the slide of her mouth against his, in the press of her tongue against his bottom lip and when he opens tugging her closer so that her body is flush is against his, in the silken caress of her tongue.

 _Home_ is the laughter that spills forth despite the ache, it is the clench of her fingers in his hair, holding him close, holding him _here;_ it is in the tightening of his arms around her.

She kisses him until they are both breathless, until small stars pop behinds her eyelids, until her entire body is trembling and the rhythm of his heartbeat has imprinted itself onto hers, until his taste - mint and berries, and the sun and the earth has coated her tongue; until the ache in her bones waxes and wanes and swells and blooms into a different kind of ache altogether, pooling liquid heat low between her thighs, only then, does she pull back.

And when she sees his dazed smile, all bright sunlight and open meadows and free air, she gives a watery chuckle, dislodging the lump in her throat and wipes at her eyes.

"yes, yes, of course yes, I'll be your home…but you can't become mine." Lincoln's expression plummets from one of dazzling happiness to shattered confusion in the blink of an eye and Octavia's stomach twists painfully with the change.

"why not." He whispers, his voice rough with emotion. The smile she gives him is her most tender yet as Octavia gently lifts her hands to cup his face. Touch reassures him, some of the pain and uncertainty leaking out of his expression. When she presses a lingering kiss to his forehead, the rest bleeds away and Lincolns eyes are soft as he waits.

"Because I'm pretty sure you already are." She whispers.

Lincolns eyes widen and the smile she gives him is blinding.

This time, it is he who moves to eliminate the distance between them. Their foreheads meet, then their noses, and when finally, their lips meet, Octavia presses her smile to his hoping he can taste the joy on her lips. Lincoln smiles against her mouth, pulling her in closer so that she is straddling his lap so she's pretty sure he can.

And _this_ kiss, this kiss is all soft presses, and lightly brushing noses. _This_ kiss is profound in its tenderness; whispers all manner of adorations against her lips. This kiss felt like I love you, like I know you, like I'll always be with you and more tears spill from her eyes, their own confessions of just how much she needed to hear these things from someone who wasn't bellamy – who didn't _have_ to do these things because she was their responsibility, because he owed it to their dead parents. But even more, how much her soul needed to hear it from him, this fierce warrior, who was somehow also an artist, turned gentle giant in her arms, this kind, loyal, boy who had had to learn how to be a man all on his own; who had grown to become a wise one, a strong one, a faithful one, as steadfast as the trees his people belonged to –

Octavia was a green sapling sending tender shoots pushing through damp earth – she had been scorched by the sun, beaten by winds and rains and storms she had had no way of knowing she would have to bear. She had reached her roots tenaciously deep, determined to hang on and she had, blooming, beautifully. Despite that tenacity, occasionally the scorch and storms had her wilting, almost before she was done growing, fighting just to stay alive. and Lincoln, Lincoln was this beautiful oak tree that had planted himself just behind her, stretching out his leaves, filtering out the scorch so that she could be revived in the shade, grow in the light and she didn't have words for how much it meant to her that he was here, that she was _home._

The change in the kiss was so gradual Octavia didn't mark the shift except now it not only tender, not only profound but deep as well, their brief gentle presses turning long, lingering, luscious. Lincolns hands slip underneath her jacket and tank top, gliding up her back, calloused fingers against suddenly burning skin and when he presses her closer, the taut, sensitive skin of her breasts meeting and molding to the hard planes of his chest through his shirt, Octavia gasps at the sensation. A smile tugs at the corners of Lincolns lips and when he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss further, his tongue slipping in to meet hers Octavia moans her approval, long and low and loud.

The sound is completely unexpected. So much so that it startles her and after freezing, she jerks back, disconnecting their lips. Lincoln's gaze is searching, concerned at first but when he notes the soft pink hue spreading across her cheeks, and the tips of her ears he grins, full and wide and amused and Octavia flushes scarlet.

"Shut up." She mutters, more heat flooding her cheeks and the tips of her ears. She's glad for the dim candle-lit glow of the bunker so at least she doesn't have to worry too much about looking like a red tomato.

She ducks her head down to look at their hands instead of at him and it's ridiculous because she's usually more brash and daring than this having been stuck in a hole, thirsty for life for much too long. But there's something about Lincoln's quiet gravity; his knowledge and maturity that makes her want to be more; less like a loud child shouting and messing around and more like a warrior. More like an adult, unfazed and in control. When she finally takes a chance and glances at his face, his grin has turned into a smile, eyes sparkling with warmth in the candlelight. She opens her mouth, face still red and she's not completely sure why, because she has absolutely nothing to explain where that sound came from. She manages to stutter a few incomprehensible things before Lincoln surges forward to crush their lips together.

Their teeth clack soundly and Octavia is laughing into his mouth because maybe maturity and quiet gravity are overrated and sometimes she forgets how _young_ Lincoln is in the grand scheme of things. Ancient compared to her because he's survived almost two decades on the ground but _young_ looking at the big picture. _Young, young, young, young, young._

His hands slide down from her back, creating a heated trail down to her hips. Lincoln gently squeezes, and then his hands descend lower, cupping her ass and even intoxicated by another kiss Octavia still flushes. She pulls back with a grin about to make a joke about him clearly being an ass-man instead of a boob-man but then Lincoln tugs and somehow she's pressed even closer to him tighter against him, right against the unmistakable bulge in his jeans and her joke dies in the sudden dessert that is her throat.

Everything suddenly feels hot and heavy and Octavia swallows against the dryness in her mouth and shifts, trying to distribute her weight more evenly over him but in effect all that does is rock her against him and Octavia bites her lip against a startled gasp while Lincoln's eyes widen, somehow darkening even further.

This moment between them feels monumental all of a sudden as she meets his eyes, feels like the end of something and a whole new beginning promised in the nearly non-existent space between their bodies. He's asking her a question, his hands moving back to her hips, his thumb gently stroking across the skin there and Octavia closes her eyes against the tiny shocks his touch sends across her skin.

 _Do you want us to continue?_

It's not a decision she wants to make based on physical impulses but when she moves to settle her head in the crook of his neck, he instantly brings his hands around her, hugging her close, no hesitation. And Octavia smiles against his skin, against the comforting rocking motion he sets up and slips a loving hand around his chin, turning his face to her.

When she catches his eyes again, Octavia smiles and leans forward, pressing her lips to his, soft and firm and sure.

 _Yes._

 ** _/0/0/0/0/0/_**

Large and warm. Calloused and strong.

Skilled, sure, powerful hands – a warrior's hands

Skilled, lean, beautiful hands – an artist's hands

Curious and careful, generous and pleasurable

Hesitant and tender –

A lover's hands gliding over her skin; experienced, knowing but learning at the same time.

His hands slide slowly up from the flat plane of her stomach, stopping just underneath the swells of her breasts. He lets his thumb gently follow the curve the curve of one and Octavia trembles, her eyes fluttering closed. And it is pleasure yes, but it is also something else and Octavia can feel Lincolns thoughtful eyes on her where she lies, her back against his furs.

"Octavia?"

His thumb is rubbing gently against one beaded pink nipple, and every stroke sends sparks shooting from her chest, further down where they smolder, bright points of pleasure in the quiet. She wonders If they will ignite, if pleasure simply keeps building until sparks turn to flame and she is lost in their heat or if they dim and something completely different comes to take their place. Her mouth is too dry to answer him on the first try so she swallows hard and tries again and even then it is raspy and rough, as if she hasn't spoken for days instead of mere minutes.

"yes?" she whispers.

She hasn't stopped trembling.

"Is this your first time?" he asks gently.

Octavia's heart stops.

Is this your first time?

Her face flushes a deep red and she feels the embarrassment, however irrational, sink like a lead ball in the pit of her stomach. Feels the acute discomfort of it all the way down to her toes.

"Shh, it's okay." Lincoln says softly, his hands gentling even more in their stroking. Octavia hasn't said anything but when he leans over to place a kiss over her heart, she realizes that he is speaking not to her mouth but to her body. Her heart. Her soul. And if she wasn't falling for him before, she's tumbling helplessly for him now; head over heels for this stranger who is not a stranger at all, this wildling that is one of the most caring people she has ever met. This warrior with an artist's hands and a lover's heart.

And it should terrify her, how swiftly, how cleanly, how effortlessly she is falling – the fact that she neither can nor will, even if she _could,_ do anything to stop it except – Octavia has always been scared of small spaces. Dark holes in the floor and muffled vibrations that should have been voices and footsteps but morphed into monsters that would grab her if they ever found her and take her far, far away from Bellamy and her mother – she has never been afraid of heights. Or of falling. Especially not with him.

The kiss is so tender she _aches_ with it.

She sucks in a deep breath designed to fill all those yearning needy places inside her; the ones that are just dying to be loved. Her breath only goes so far, can't quite reach the throb that has taken hold of her heart, or the need suddenly compressing her chest.

Lincoln shifts onto one elbow to look at her and his gaze is soft – still questioning and Octavia realizes she never really gave him an answer. She swallows, against the sudden dryness in her mouth and the lump that has wedged itself in her throat.

When she answers, her voice comes out far smaller than she intends - small and vulnerable and she is reminded of how excruciatingly young she is also – how little of either world – the one above or the one beneath she truly knows.

"Yes" she whispers.

Lincoln's eyes somehow grow even softer and darker – deep with tenderness. She hears the quiet breath he sucks in and suddenly she is almost painfully self-conscious once again. Because maybe this was all getting far too serious far too fast and she was making the same mistake she'd already made with Atom – throwing her herself at someone who didn't want any additional complications, who wanted far less out of the relationship than she did.

Her fingers twist into the furs wrapping the hairs tightly around the digits and clenching as she turns her face away from him.

"we don't have to – if it's too much pressure or whatever – if you don't want to – "

She's barely finished her sentence before warm fingers are sliding under her chin, turning her gaze gently but firmly back towards his. Octavia's breath catches at the quiet adoration in Lincoln's face, full and absolute. He leans down slowly letting their foreheads meet and then their noses and when he finally kisses her it is full and deep and slow, imbued with all the tender reverence that she glimpsed earlier and by the time he pulls back – just an inch, just enough so that he can meet her eyes – she is shaking with the intensity of it, her hands clenching at his sides. Their mouths are almost touching and she is flushed from the kiss, dizzy from this proximity, from the hot breaths still washing rhythmically into her mouth; from his eyes, obsidian gems with the orange glow of the candles dancing in their depths – dizzy from the soft adoration radiating form him when Lincoln whispers. "you honor me Octavia kom skaikru."

He speaks slowly, his mouth lingering over her name as if she herself is a gift and Octavia finds tears suddenly blurring her vision. He kisses them away gently, hand coming up to swipe through the traces left behind and there is too much affection, too much understanding in how he looks at her, how he touches her for Octavia to feel ashamed. She is not afraid to be weak here, with him.  
Lincoln presses a damp kiss to her forehead, her cheeks, again over her eyes and Octavia lets them close. She revels in the way he presses his cheek to hers even as he whispers, "but we do not have to do anything if you aren't ready. The last thing I want to do his hurt you."

He pulls back so he can meet her gaze once more and is a little bewildered though by no means displeased by the small half smile he finds hovering on her lips.

"That's why I want my first time to be with you. I choose you" Octavia whispers.

She lets her hands ghost over his body, from his waist, across his ribs, up his back –

Octavia's smile widens when Lincoln shivers under her touch, turns full and breaming and bright, a thousand watts of light in their small bunker as she cups Lincoln's face and pulls him gently but firmly down for a kiss.

 **/0/0/0/0/0**

Octavia loves his mouth.

And not just for the obvious reasons - not just for the kisses said mouth gave – slow and unhurried, open and wet; tender. Hot. Deep.

Passionate;

Not just for the way it explored her skin: tracing warmly along her jaw, nipping along the graceful column of her neck in a way that created sparks of electricity that left her entire body tingling and heated, suckling - gently at first and then with increasing pressure - at the base of her neck, right where her racing pulse thrummed until Octavia knew he meant to mark her and her eyes flutter closed as she arches against him with a soft groan – it was not just for those obvious reasons that Octavia loved Lincoln's mouth.

She loved it for the words that came from it, interspersed with the warm, worshipful presses of his lips; a unique caress against her heated skin; loved the touch of awe that graced them; the desire that fueled them; the gentle reverence that lingered in his touch long after his words had faded away;

The words themselves were incomprehensible to Octavia, a steady stream of a language too foreign to wrap her mind around separately from the pleasure he was invoking but she didn't need to understand the words to _feel_ them; their sincerity and importance. The _tone_ of them was enough, sinking into her skin, into her blood, into her bones – as sweet and intoxicating as the finest wine - just as heady, just as powerful – his words produced a heat all their own, a heat that she could trace all the way from her heart to the molten desire pooling between her legs.

Perhaps most touching of all, most devastating of all was the thankfulness woven through. She heard it again when his mouth drifted from her collarbone to the dip between her breasts, when he moved to nuzzle against one soft mound, the sensation sending shivers down Octavia's spine that had her toes curling; something low and tight in her abdomen tugging, pulling a silent gasp from her lips.

She blushed, her skin turning a pretty burnished pink in the candlelight and Lincoln smiled against her – a lazy, contented smile. When he glanced up, meeting her eyes, the sheer _warmth_ in his gaze took her breath away.

Without breaking eye- contact Lincoln slowly parted his mouth against her skin and settled it over one beaded pink bud, tasting. Everything around Octavia seemed to still, going hazy around the edges. her entire world narrowed down to the soft- dark of Lincoln's eyes, the steady pull of his mouth against her skin and the hammering of her heart against her ribs. One second passed, and then two and the air that was trapped in Octavia's lungs was released in a soft, helpless moan, her head falling back against the furs.

Lincoln suckled against her for several long wonderful moments, kissing her with the same generous, unhurried dedication with which he had been doing everything tonight, pulls slow and languorous and _god –_

She arched against him with a whimper at the same time as he pressed her hands into the furs beside her head and tangled their fingers together and the touch brought both relief – because she had needed something to _hold onto –_ and a new level of intensity to Lincoln's ministrations because she wanted to _touch_ him and now she couldn't do anything but roll her hips up and against him to let him know just how much.

She can feel Lincoln's smile as he bites at her gently, feels it grow when another whimper – higher-pitched and edged in need - slips from her throat. He released her with a soft 'pop' and nuzzle his way over to the other side, soft kisses leaving burning impressions against her skin.

He pauses for a moment, lips over her heart, eyes closed, words soft, and tenderness mixes with desire and washes over Octavia in a wave at the way he's closed his eyes against her, at the sound of his voice, at the tone of the words that slip out, murmured into the almost dark. She's never had anyone _thankful_ for anything she's had to offer before. Thankful for _her_. Thankful just because she existed.

It makes her feel wanted.

Worshipped.

 _Loved._

She smiles and lets her fingers stroke tenderly along the strip of hair in the middle of his head. When he presses one more kiss to her heart, tears blur her vision but Octavia doesn't mind. She tilts her head back letting them run down from her cheek and onto the furs. They were happy tears. She was _happy._

She lets her free hand move to stroke down his cheek and then his jaw, once again claiming Lincoln's attention so that he moves to hover over her. "I'm really glad I met you too." She murmurs, her smile flashing in the dark; bright, wide and beautiful underneath dark, glistening eyes.

His answering smile is soft, brilliant, his eyes growing tender and deep - enough confirmation that even though she does not know the exact meaning of his words she's captured the soul of them just fine. He doesn't say anything in response and Octavia doesn't need him to – the lingering kiss he places on her forehead speaks volumes as does the moist, warm haven of his mouth as Lincoln lowers his head and takes her into his mouth again.

And Lincoln tastes and tastes and tastes, giving and giving and giving until Octavia's back arches off the furs, her moan breaking of into a sob that sounds a lot like his name.

When she tugs him up, invites him with open arms to meet her lips once more, he goes gladly, smiling and _she_ is _thankful,_ oh so very thankful they get this night, these moments, these sights and sounds and memories; that tonight they belong to only each other, with none of their peoples in sight.

 **/0/0/0/0/0**

She still loves his hands.

Loves the way they slide down her skin at the same time she's melting against the slide of his mouth, loves the callouses decorating his palms, love how they're soft and rough and hot at the same time, love how when they settle against her chest, they fill themselves with her, squeezing gently, until Octavia bites his lip around a groan and Lincoln moans against her.

His hands move everywhere, gliding down her side from her ribs, massaging into her hips, moving back to her chest. And it's a peculiar euphoria that wraps around her when his fingers begin gently circling, caressing, tugging all while he kisses her to that steady inner rhythm, the one that leaves her languidly pliant against him. Blissful. Aching. Wanting.

She's in a daze of pleasure as his mouth coordinates with his hands, enough that despite the ache that's intensifying with every pull of his mouth, skillful stroke of his fingers; despite the sounds of affirmation and need that come spilling wordlessly from Octavia's throat, she forgets to ask for this unfamiliar thing her body knows she needs, forgets to roll her lips against him and demand the to reach the final destination. She just absorbs, that first blast of heat ripening into a long slow burn.

She's so focused on the pleasure and heat and rhythm between them that she only dimly registers his free hand drifting purposely lower over the toned plane of her stomach, his nails scraping lightly against her skin, the muscles in her abdomen clenching involuntarily at his touch.

His fingers settle on the button of her jeans.

And Octavia's breath hitches.

The sound of the button popping open is suddenly incredibly loud in the small space, almost as loud as the pounding of her heart.

She doesn't realize she's stopped until he'd pulls his mouth away from her neck to press a kiss to her cheek and remind her, "breathe Octavia." She can feel his smile and it relaxes her enough that she manages to suck in a deep albeit shaky breath and exhale it softly.

Meeting his twinkling eyes, she laughs shakily.

"Sorry, first time." She smiles. It's supposed to be a joke but her smile trembles ever so slightly around the corners and Lincolns eyes grow dark and tender.

"Octavia you have nothing to apologize for. and nothing to fear. You're safe with me. I would never hurt you."

Octavia closes her eyes, letting his words wash over her, warm and reassuring and sweet.

"Good," she breathes, letting her hands drift up the well-defined muscles of his arms to his shoulders. "because you're kind of driving me insane." She whispers, low and rough, like pebbles lying beneath a burbling brook.

Lincolns sudden smile turns into a full blown grin and he leans forward to give Octavia a kiss on the nose, laughing when she wrinkles it in response.

Then his hand shifts to the zip of her jeans and her already unsteady breathing somehow manages to become even more ragged. The zipper parts easily, like a hot knife through butter and Octavia's mouth is suddenly, desperately, almost embarrassingly dry.

When he captures her mouth in a kiss as tender as it is passionate Octavia loses herself again to the sensation of his mouth moving against hers, learns a way of communicating that is as old as time, feels an affection that needed no voice, no introduction because every part of this kiss declares it;

When his hands slip into her jeans, past the waistband of her underwear, against damp curls and into moist heat Octavia promptly forgets how to breathe again.

And for all that he might have experienced before this moment, with her, for one aching, wonderful second Lincoln does too.

 **/0/0/0/0/0**

She loves his ears.

Octavia is warm, and languid and pleasantly sated as she lets her hand run experimentally up and down Lincoln's back, across his shoulders and down his sides, fingers tracing the ridges of his spine, dipping into his collar bone, fitting themselves into the spaces between his ribs; she marvels at the way he trembles underneath her hands, feels a warm wave of tenderness rush through how he stays still for her, submitting to her curiosity and unhurried exploration with encouraging smiles and soft eyes.

She's never put much stock on ears in general and certainly not as a source of pleasure but when Octavia moves her exploration to his ear, tongue curling gently against the inner shell she can't help but reconsider. Lincoln's entire body shudders. His arms, which are planted on either side of her head, holding him slightly above her tremble and when her tongue traces down, sliding against his lobe before pulling the tip of his ear into wet heat he groans and presses his face into her neck, the sound reverberating against her skin.

She smiles, pleased at the sound, at being able to give him at least some of the pleasure he had given her.

The pull of her mouth increases and Lincoln groans again, and lets his arms buckle so that he's resting above her on his elbows, barely any space left between their bodies. She notes that he's tense, his entire body practically vibrating against her and she realizes that it's because he's doing everything within his power not to thrust against her. Her cheeks warm at the realization that even now he's putting her first, doing his best not to scare her or rush her and Octavia doesn't have words for the way her heart expands, for the affection that rushes to fill it in the same way that air rushes to fill a drowning man's lungs after he first breaks through the surface. Instead Octavia lets her fingers run down his spine, scratching lightly, until they reach the small of his back. Then Octavia tugs him determinately down until Lincoln's body is flush against hers. She parts her legs for him so that he can settle even more comfortably against her and Octavia can feel when he squeezes his eyes shut against her and his hands clench a handful of the furs beside her head.

"Octavia." He husks and maybe it's supposed to be more of a warning but comes out like a plea and she smiles against his skin as she gently releases his ear only to press her mouth to the hollow just behind it and continue softly suckling.

Air struggles to make its way in and out of his lungs, and there's a part of her that's fiercely proud and unthinkably pleased that she affects him at least as much as he affects her; that she can have him flushed, and trembling and panting when she's barely touched him.

She's feeling playful enough to bite him, gently pulling at the sensitive skin behind his ear with her teeth. She smiles when she hears his breathing hitch and she can't resist teasing him just a little bit. "Breathe Lincoln." She whispers into his ear and presses a kiss to his cheek for good measure.

He chuckles against her, the vibration creating pleasant tingles against her skin and she knows he appreciates the irony of how the tables have turned, especially when he nuzzles into her neck and murmurs "That's easy for you to say, you're kind of driving me insane"

His voice is low and rough like gravel and has shivers racing down Octavia's spine. She curls her arms around him and presses a kiss to his neck, letting him feel her smile.

"you can always think about baseball." She murmurs, grinning, oozing satisfaction as she moves her attention back to the inner shell of his ear.

"ah, sure." He closes his eyes against another shudder, searching desperately for the reference, baseball, baseball –

"Octavia what's baseball?" he murmurs after a moment when he comes up blank. She laughs then, giggles sending hot puffs of air against his ear that have him curling his toes, his fingers clenching against the furs, hips twitching.

She lies back against the furs, grinning, her eyes twinkling and Lincoln feels everything inside him heat and melt at the same time. "It's a sport" she murmurs, amusement and affection still lining her voice. "it used to be played by people before the world was destroyed by nuclear weapons."

"Ah" he whispers, but to be honest, he's lost interest in the subject. He's captivated by the way Octavia's hair is splayed out against the furs, glinting gold highlights flashing in the candlelight; by the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the dimple showing in her cheek. He's hyper aware of the warmth of her hands, that have slid down to rest against the bare skin of his waist, of the swell of her stomach against him every time she breathes; the part to her mouth, lips soft and swollen and inviting. And maybe she can see it, the way he feels for her because Octavia sobers and softens, eyes darkening. Her hand moves to gently cup his face, her thumb tracing lightly against his lower lip as her eyes drop to it.

His lip tingles.

He's expecting the kiss she pulls him gently into. What he's not expecting is the way Octavia parts his mouth with hers; the slow, slick drag of her tongue against his bottom lip before she pulls it into her mouth and sucks. Lincoln moans helplessly and Octavia takes the opportunity to tug him closer and tangle her tongue with his.

The kiss is desperate and messy and leaves Lincoln panting shakily into Octavia's mouth. He rests his forehead against hers and tries remember how to breathe when it feels like every part of him has been set on fire. Octavia nuzzles her nose against him and when his eyes slid open, hazy with want, she does something that shocks him more than everything she's done thus far. Maintaining eye contact she very deliberately takes his bottom lip between hers and bites down, teeth pulling until his lip slides out of her mouth with a slight pop.

Lincoln makes a strangled little sound.

His hips buck helplessly against her.

They both groan.

Octavia chuckles breathlessly and Lincoln can feel her laughter everywhere, can taste it when she joins their lips again, as it sinks, warm and electric into his bones.

 **/0/0/0/0/0**

She loves his eyes.

She's not quite sure when everything became so quiet, when the entire world narrowed down to the soft dark of Lincoln's eyes and the sound of their breaths rushing slowly in and out of their lungs. She's not even conscious of the thudding of her heart anymore, all her attention focused on Lincoln's hands as they gently tug her jeans off of her hips. The sound of the material sliding against her skin fills her ears, the quiet clink the buckle of her belt makes when Lincoln sets it down to the side. Then the slowly glide of her underwear down her legs and Octavia's breath is caught somewhere in her throat.

His hands glide up her legs, then her thighs before Lincoln moves to hover over her and Octavia swallows, her heart suddenly making its reappearance as a boulder-sized lump in her throat.

Lincoln's eyes soften, like he understands the nervousness that's suddenly intertwining in her excitement and it's enough for Octavia to push her fears aside and reach for his belt. Her fingers tremble lightly as she undoes it but the honeyed warmth in the darkness of his eyes is sweet enough that she doesn't stop, doesn't even consider it, her nervousness fading as suddenly as it came, leaving only a giddy kind of anticipation that leaves her breathing unsteadily.

He never once breaks eye contact as she takes her cues from him, gently tugging down his pants much in the same way he had pulled off her jeans. She tosses them somewhere near the pile of their clothes from earlier and a grin flashes across Lincoln's face. She would smirk at him if her heart wasn't still lodged somewhere in her throat. Instead, she hooks her fingers into the grounder version of boxers, brown and made out of cotton. Wordlessly she asks if this is okay and Lincoln nods. She wonders if he's feeling the same as she is as she slowly slides them down, if his mouth feels parched, his tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth, six sizes too big to talk.

She drops his boxers somewhere to the side and Lincoln moves to settle fully against her, skin to skin. Octavia flushes, blood rushing to her face and ears, and neck and chest and suddenly the roar of her own blood in her ears is all that she can hear.

His eyes ask her if she's ready and when Octavia nods, he still gives her a second, placing a kiss to the corner of her mouth and her eyes, and her cheeks before he moves.

Octavia gasps, eyes widening, hands clenching involuntarily at Lincoln's sides. Lincoln groans, burying his face into the hollow of her neck.

For a second they simply lie there, trying to get their breath back.

"Are you okay?" Lincoln whispers, staying perfectly still and Octavia nods but squeezes his hip to ask him to give her a second. Lincoln does, watching the emotions that flicker across her face as her body gets used to the sting and stretch of it. He smiles and nuzzles against her neck, her cheek, resting their foreheads together until Octavia seeks his mouth out, squeezes at his hip to show she's ready.

He pulls back just to make sure and there's something about just how warm the affection in his eyes is, just how deep it runs that has Octavia suddenly desperate to experience this together with him. She nods emphatically, still not quite capable of speech and almost as if he's testing whether she really is ready, Lincoln pulls slowly back and thrusts forward and Octavia's head snaps backwards on a moan.

She can feel his grin when he presses a kiss to her neck and Octavia is torn between chuckling and whimpering.

Then he does it again and the soft cry that leaves her lips comes of its' own accord.

He reaches for the hands that are clenched into his back, pressing them down beside her head and interlacing their fingers. He squeezes gently and when he meets her gaze again, Octavia is dizzied by the promise in his eyes.

"look at me?" he murmurs, nuzzling against her cheek, mouth moving along the line of her jaw and it sounds like a question but Octavia knows its more of a request, an appeal to be with him and stay with him in this moment, to experience this together.

She nods, her hips twitching against him and Lincoln smiles again, a knowing smile this time as he bends to give her the kinds of kiss that has her toes curling, fingers clenching, body arching up into his.

Capturing her eyes, smile soft, he begins to move again.

 **/0/0/0/0/0**

Octavia can't stop smiling.

Lincoln takes one look at the grin peeking out from where she's buried her face into his shoulder and starts laughing.

He tugs Octavia closer, not caring that they're both sweaty and holds her close letting her tuck her head into the curve of his neck. She snuggles closer and then melts against him, every part of her going languid and soft.

"So…was it everything you thought it was going to be?" He can't resist asking after several long blissful moments of just lying together have passed.

Octavia laughs and the sound makes all kinds of wonderful warm flipping things happen to his stomach and his heart.

Lincoln grins.

Octavia kisses his shoulder, letting her lips linger before answering him. "Better" she whispers.

Something about the sudden husk of her voice has Lincoln turning to look at her. Octavia blushes prettily at the attention, her cheeks tinting pink but she meets his gaze boldly. There's something about the raw sincerity of her gaze, the touch of vulnerability nestled softly there that absolutely destroys him, everything inside him melting at once.

He's drawn irrevocably to her and joins their lips in their softest kiss yet, trying to communicate the magnitude of everything he feels for her, everything that's filling him right now till it feels like his heart just might burst from it. Judging from the quiet sigh Octavia exhales into his mouth, he's at least partly successful.

He pulls back to rest his forehead against hers. "Ai hod yu in, Octavia kom skaikru." He breathes.

Octavia sighs again, soft and delighted, his words washing against her weary heart, cool and sweet, like the sea kissing the shore, like water hugging sore feet and Octavia doesn't need any translation for this as she reaches up to caress his cheek.

"I love you too." She whispers.

And finally saying it, is like taking her first step on the ground after an eternity of being trapped in the sky – she's exhilarated, euphoric, full of joy and peace and maybe a little overwhelmed in the best possible way.

Several long, blissful moments pass as they allow the reality of their confessions to sink in – as they savor the sweetness of them – and then Octavia moves to snuggle into him again.

Lincoln takes those large, wonderful hands; a warrior's hands, an artist's hands, a lover's hands and holds her close, her ear to his heart.

She's finally made it; she can't help but think as the steady rhythm of his heart slowly lulls her to sleep.

Just like with that first step on the ground what now seems ages ago –

Octavia turns just enough to press a kiss to his heart, the part she loves now maybe most of all and settles again in complete contentment. No matter what happens between their people after Lincoln brings the grounder commander to Clarke.

She's finally made it.

She's finally _home._

Home _._


End file.
